


amore

by gaymom666, NewtTaylor (gentlemanofquality)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amore - Freeform, Comedy, Florist AU, Florists, Gay............., Gen, M/M, Other, Post-Book, Post-Canon, gay celestial being and hell being
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:57:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3630708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaymom666/pseuds/gaymom666, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlemanofquality/pseuds/NewtTaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale wins an argument; Crowley succeeds in making an honest living; Aziraphale experiences regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
>  jade: hey hi this is journey im glad you are reading!! we're really attached to this fic so we hope you enjoy it as much as we do. ciao!  
> newt: this is me and journey's Supreme Body of Work.

More than anything it’s the smugness.

When Aziraphale talks about his bookshop, he adopts this supercilious tone and looks at Crowley like he “wouldn’t understand”. _Even though_ he’d keep it shut every day of the week if he could and has, on more than one occasion, dropped hints so heavy that patrons would feel a sudden near-religious conviction that their business lay elsewhere. Where he gets his holier-than-thou attitude Crowley will never—well, he does know. And, all sweetness and righteousness, Aziraphale loves to remind Crowley that he “hasn’t a real job.”

This is of course a complete lie. As a career, demon is about as legitimate a job as it gets: one of the first, even. And the benefits are comparatively fantastic (hell has a killer dental plan). But over the centuries, Aziraphale’s acquired these weird _standards_ that Crowley is pretty sure aren’t based in any form of reality he’s ever been a part of, and the angel’s convinced himself that there’s something important about _working_ for a living. It’s... redeeming… or something along those lines. So every few years, right when Crowley thinks he’s forgotten it, Aziraphale gets on his case about working. And this time the smugness has reached a level Crowley just _cannot_ deal with.

Case in point: “Dear,” Aziraphale begins, in a tone Crowley can only assume was aiming for ‘concerned’ and missed the mark, landing instead in the realm of ‘nosy’ and sharing an eastern border with ‘snooty’. “Don’t you have a schedule to keep? I understand that perhaps a lack of discipline may come hand in hand with unemployment, but really, Crowley, that’s no excuse to laze about.”

It’s not like Aziraphale ever opens his shop at the same time over any consecutive period of days, or remembers to unlock the door in the morning, or really pays the sign on the glass reading “Monday through Thursday, 12 to 4” even the pretense of respect. If you asked him directly, he’d say something about being “scatterbrained” or maybe even “getting a little old”; but he doesn’t put much effort into the lie, though he’s content to hold it over Crowley’s head anyway.

But the fact of the matter is that he says that late nights and idle hands are no good for productivity, devil’s playthings aside, and he’s chosen this evening to berate Crowley on his lack of gainful employment.

“I mean, after all, I’m sure you’ve got something you can work with, you just need to put your mind to it. Apply yourself, you know,” Aziraphale continued with a vague wave of his hand, “motivation, hard work, bootstraps and all that.”

It’s just too much. Crowley gives in.

Within the month, he’s got his coils around a little plot in Soho at the corner nearest Aziraphale’s bookshop, which he transforms from a surprisingly frumpy and outmoded pâtisserie into a trendy florist’s shop.

At first, those who drop into the new shop on the block are put off by being helped by someone who wears sunglasses indoors. But the houseplants he sells are almost suspiciously gorgeous and he seems to carry every variety of flower requested, no matter how obscure. A proprietor that looks slightly like he’s in the mob can be more than taken in stride when you get emails asking about the flower arrangements at your last do from jealous guests. Maybe it’s the internet, maybe devilish manipulation, but before long Crowley’s flower shop is actually popular.

  


* * *

  


Aziraphale looks up at the tinkle of the bell above the locked door to see an unexpected visit from Crowley. As business has picked up, the demon has been spending less time at the bookshop and more time pruning his newfound nursery. The strange thing, Aziraphale is surprised to notice, is that with every social visit Crowley does make, the brighter he seems to be.

“Another disappointment,” Crowley practically croons, setting a confused but otherwise picturesque pot of orchids down on a wayward shelf with a flourish, leaving it to commiserate with a vase of peace lilies that had arrived at the bookshop earlier that week. “Can’t have these underachievers mucking up the shop, brings down the aesthetic of the whole place.”

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow (he thinks—he’s never checked that that’s actually what happens, but it _feels_ like his face is making the correct shape for “arching an eyebrow”) at the corner of the shop slowly becoming, by way of unspoken and unofficial annexation, A.J. Crowley’s Home for Wayward Verdants.

“And what about _my_ aesthetic?”

Crowley’s brow furrows. “You have an aesthetic?” He looks as though he’s trying to puzzle out the answer for a moment before giving up and waving away the question. “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, you’re just going to have to deal with my rejects until I find a proper landfill to dump them in.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “Now, Crowley—”

“Yes, yes, respecting life, we’re all under the heavens together. I know the spiel, but I have principles about this kind of thing—”

“Er, I suppose that’s right, but what I—”

“—I have standards, and this kind of poor performance isn’t going to cut it! Now, if they had shown signs of improvement sooner I might have readmitted them into the fold but as it is they’re a lost cause, and quite frankly I’m disgusted. As it stands—”

“Look, I don’t care about—”

“—think of it as purgatory! Except potentially not eternal. I don’t know, I’d never really been involved in that department. Anyway, theres no way I can have these round the shop, so I figure you’d like giving absolution to these...charity cases—”

“ _Crowley_ —”

“—and speaking of which, my lunch hour is nearly over, I’ve got to run back and open up shop for the afternoon rush, we’ll catch up later, ciao!” he crows as the door swings shut behind him.

“But I don’t want to take care of these _plants_ ,” Aziraphale says in frustration to the empty room, trading an uncomfortable glance with a snapdragon.

  


* * *

  


_Knock, knock._

Aziraphale turns a page carefully, knowing that to be hasty would be certain destruction for his rare old volume. He scans the page, smiling distantly at the pleasantness of words and metre and a general sense of tranquility.

_Knock—_

He almost glances up from his book, but decides it’s coming from next door and is none of his business.

_Knock—!_

A fourth, urgent sounding knock finally rouses his attention and he sighs, putting a leather bookmark over the page and shutting the book. He straightens up at the desk with the 80s-era register and glances at his door.

The first thing he sees is a spray of daisies. Then a fist, raised to knock.

_Knock, knock, knock—_

So it is a customer. Aziraphale is, of course, overjoyed to have someone in this fast-paced, technologically-oversaturated world seeking the joy of the written word, but at the same time… well. He’s busy! He can’t make time for every intellectually-starved human on the streets of London.

He waves a hand to the person at the door, trying to indicate “come back later or not at all” The customer seems to only be spurred on by his dismissal, and nods rapidly, shifting the pot of daisies to one side and trying the door.

Too late, Aziraphale realises he never made sure the door was locked.

“Hi! Sorry to barge in, but I’m running late for my niece's birthday. She loves to read. I was getting her flowers as a gift down the street and saw your sign—thank goodness you’re open! Do you have, uh—” he checks his phone, “Enid Blyton?”

Aziraphale’s hearing must be going. He has to confirm: “Blyton, you say?”

The customer walks up to the register and puts the potted plant on the desk, disturbing the sanctity of the layer of dust on its surface. Aziraphale bites back a scowl. He’s going to have to wipe that down later, he’s sure.

“If you have any other recommendations that’d be great! I don’t know much about books. I just got the name off Google.”

The draw of teaching someone about the joys of literature collection overcomes his irritation for long enough to actually get up from his extremely comfortable rolling chair and show the curious buyer a vintage edition of _Through the Looking Glass_ and a copy of _The Wind in the Willows_ with colored illustrations.

Quite taken with both books, the customer pays, picks up his flowers, and leaves with a grin and a loud _Thanks! You’re a lifesaver!_

Aziraphale settles back down and resumes his reading, chalking the last couple minutes up to just “one of those things”. Not even an ethereal being can predict all the actions of men.

But just a couple days later, almost the same thing happens again. And later the same day, again. And by the next week, it’s happening… regularly.

Suspicious.

 


End file.
